


Doodles

by missduncan



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 09:19:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13361511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missduncan/pseuds/missduncan
Summary: Boyd's participating in an obligatory course. He's bored but making the best out of it that he can.





	Doodles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joodiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/gifts).



> Happy - very late - birthday, Joodiff. Sorry, I didn't manage to post it in time. 
> 
> Blame my work – participating in a long and extremely boring meeting made me daydream and inspired this story.  
> As always, thank you so much and lots of hugs to Got Tea for all your help, patience, and the beta.

He's bored. Completely and utterly bored, but sadly he’s in absolutely no position to do anything about it.

It's hard keeping up a show of interest in the things going on around him. It's all so irrelevant – doesn’t concern anything in his daily work; is nothing at all to do with real policing. Earlier he almost starting nodding off; eyelids gently sliding down, he found it impossible to concentrate on what was going on up by the board. He hates every damn moment that he’s forced to participate in courses like this, directed by HR regulations, but he has to be patient, remain calm. Like every officer in the force of his rank he must endure this annual torture gracefully and suffer in silence.

Just get it over and done with, he tries telling himself. It is pure bureaucracy, though; a bloody waste of his time. Time he could use so much better with the team.  
The mere thought of how many reports fill up his inbox and the piles of paperwork growing on his desk while he's seated here, listening to the endless tirade about some irrelevant trivialities from an officer based in HR, makes him angry. Out of pure boredom, his eyes quickly glide over the slim figure in front of the blackboard. Okay, this year – he’ll give them that much – the teacher is worth looking at. Long legs, good behind and... hmmm... at least an E cup, if his eye measure still works all right. Not that he's seriously looking anymore, now that he and Grace have finally got their act together.

Looking away, not wanting to risk a case of sexual harassment, he steadies his head in his left hand, letting the thoughts fly freely through his mind, not focusing on anything specific, and – no surprise – Grace immediately invades his head. Closing his eyes he can almost sense her. Glittering sapphire-blue eyes seem to tease him, an enticing scent, a hint of citrus, something flowery and spicy tries to seduce him. Grace's eyes, Grace's perfume, her soft, warm skin under his hands. He can't escape her no matter where he is.

Pull yourself together, man! Don't get lost in day-dreams, he scolds himself, shaking his head, trying to find some kind of composure.

He needs something to keep his attention.

Indifferently, his eyes slide over the whiteboard, like he's following the teaching, but taking care not to look at her. There is a pen is in his hand as he pretends to take notes, but he sighs deeply. This is rubbish. Utter rubbish.

No words appear on the blank surface; instead he sketches. It has always been a great tool for diverting his temper, a good way to distract his mind from annoyances and boredom, something to keep him at ease, making him relax, helping him muster his thoughts. He likes it and he’s fairly good at it. It’s a hidden talent not many people are aware of, something he regards as far too personal a skill to be casually sharing with others.

His pen moves of its own accord; a line here, some hasty slashes there, sometimes only a dot instead. He isn't conscious about what he's doing. Patterns appear in front of him, independent of his will, based on pure and simple tediousness.

Casting a critical eye on the doodles, a wicked smile begins tucking at the corner of his mouth as a silent giggle gets caught in his throat. Doodles, lots of doodles, but if he combines this line with the dots there, and sketches a shadow here, it starts resembling cleavage. No one else can probably see... it's all in his mind... thanks to a sound and vivid imagination. Turning the paper, he starts on a blank page again – better safe than being caught with a dirty fantasy.

But sweet Jesus, the things his mind is full of. Grace really is never far away in his thoughts. He knows all too well he’s in love with her, deeply in love. Knows he this time needs to take his time, nurturing the relationship… to use one of her words. Because, this one, Grace, he won’t let go of. Wants to grow old with her, can’t even imagine living without her in his life anymore.

He wants to come up with something to surprise her. Not because he has to, but because he can. Perhaps take her to a new restaurant, with good food and wine. Maybe buy her a bouquet of flowers...

Immediately, the doodles begin taking form as a rose on the new blank page in front of him... Hmmm, he muses. Normally he isn't the romantic type, but, under the right – apparently boring – circumstances, his mind evidently turns in that direction. Frustrations he's not allowed to express finding other ways to escape.

He shouldn’t be locked up in a classroom with all these other officers of the same rank, all of whom are as extremely busy as he is and shouldn't be wasting their time sitting here listening to some idiot teaching them about things that are not relevant to their roles. They all should be out doing what they're supposed to do. During the lunch break, at least, he did catch up with some old friends from his time on the beat, and colleagues he hasn't seen in a long time, but besides that, this day is a complete waste.

Arriving late this morning, at the very last moment before the scheduled start, he's now seated – thank God for small mercies – alone at the desk at the very back of the room. Nobody's able to watch over his shoulder to see what he's doing. The "teacher" only moves around in the front of the classroom – so far she hasn't approached beyond the first three rows of desks – leaving him sitting quite undisturbed, with space enough to push his chair back, making room for his long legs. The desk is too low for him and the chair uncomfortable, though – his back hurts like hell already, and lunch is only just over. It’s going to be such a long day.

From time to time he looks up, pretending to show interest in what's going on in front of him. His right hand moves on, though, working of its own accord. He has no idea what he's drawing, but it doesn't matter. It’s purely therapeutic anyway, not meant to be anything. Just doodles. Simple doodles. With only one purpose... keeping him sane... and awake...

Automatically, his free hand moves to his forehead, rubbing down over his face, scratching his beard, casting a speculative glance down at the paper in front of him, studying the image the lines show. Vividly sparkling eyes look back to him from the page. Okay, they are black here, not blue, he thinks, but they’re definitely hers. This gaze he'd be able to recognise everywhere. A warm feeling of contentment spreads from the centre of his core, providing him with a calmness he hasn't felt for years. She is so good for him. Definitely. It's taken him years to accept it but now... he acknowledges it. She is his life – nothing more, nothing less.

Booking a nice hotel somewhere outside London is a great idea – take her away for a nice weekend. They both like walking together along the coastline – anywhere in nature, actually, if the weather is good – and visiting castles, estates or old churches. As long as the bed is big, soft and comfy and the food is good, she'll appreciate it. They both enjoy getting out of London, where they can act more freely, holding hands in public, maybe even kissing without any risk of unfriendly prying eyes.

Slowly, ever so slowly the pen moves lightly over the paper before him, lines on the surface that isn’t so pure and white now.

Sketching. Lines. Slashes. Dots. A curve here. An oblique there.

Still, almost unconsciously, he lets the pen move over the paper, certainly not pristine anymore, filled as it is with scribbles.

His neck and shoulders are hurting now, having been seated for too long in a chair that doesn’t fit his long body. Pen down, he straightens his back, trying to ease the tense muscles. Reaching for the pen again, he looks down on the paper. From the page in front of him Grace is smiling, laughing at him. Not at him but towards him. She seems so happy, as she gazes up at him, comfortably reclined against the pillows, arms behind her head, steadying it and... good God... where the hell was his mind just now?

Curled up, stark naked, she is, completely indifferent, totally at ease, but also a woman with an air of absolute contentment around her. For a moment his heart almost stops, the breath sticks in his chest and he feels the heat rise in his cheeks.

Damn, damn, damn.

He’s blushing, certainly, but that’s not the only place the blood is rushing. A considerable portion of it is heading lower, much lower, and that… is not good. It’s definitely not good.

Quickly straightening up again, he crosses his legs, attempting to hide the current state he's in as he places his arm over the paper, hiding it from view. He would be a laughing stock if anybody found out he’d got a bloody hard-on during this course. The teacher isn’t that old, but she’s not that good looking, either. The others might still believe it's her providing him with his current problem, though, but it’s definitely not.

Attempting to concentrate, taking deep steadying breaths time and time again, he tries to reach some kind of equilibrium. Damn the woman. Damn... but of course, he doesn't mean it. The things she's able to do to him. The things she does – even when she's not with him. Nowadays, she’s always in his mind.

Always!

A smile spreads on his face. A big, happy smile. Without consciously trying, his hand has drawn a sketch of her. Not only that, but on the page she’s just as he’d eventually left her this morning, having been distracted and delayed by her tactics, and almost arriving too late for the course because of them.

Resolutely, he tears the page out of the notepad, and folds it carefully before storing it in the breast pocket of his shirt. The sketch is way too incriminating to be thrown away in a rubbish bin. Anyone who knows him and her would be able to work out the source.

Deciding he’d better start concentrating on what's going on around him, he makes a valiant effort to try to pay more attention. Thinking about Grace, as he apparently does all the time, is way too dangerous a method of passing the time and trying to make the day end more quickly.


End file.
